


Peaches and Beer

by Rhanon_Brodie



Category: Actor RPF, Norman Reedus - Fandom
Genre: Beer, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, F/M, Oral Sex, Peaches - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhanon_Brodie/pseuds/Rhanon_Brodie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pinnacle of afternoon refreshment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peaches and Beer

**Author's Note:**

> All copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their respective owners. The remaining content is mine.

The Georgia afternoon is hot and damp, making everything sticky. You’re a mess after a hard day, and most times you can’t wait to get into the shower, wash away the dirt, the grime, the blood, and your aches and pains. Other days, you’re so exhausted you collapse onto the hammock, arm thrown over your eyes as you sway in the stifling heat, trying to find a breeze. Still, sometimes, you come home to find me rooting through your kitchen, drinking your sweet tea, wearing nothing but your t-shirt and a pair of panties. When you first step in through the sliding door you pause as the air conditioning makes the sweat dry on your skin, watching as I bend over to inspect the contents at the back of your fridge.

“Making yourself at home?” you ask, and your tone is leery, somewhat edgy. You’re tired, I know, and maybe a little cranky at the vision of me rummaging through what has always been your space.

It’s been a learning experience for the both of us, to say the least. We each like our time alone, have separate groups of friends, and I’m a morning person while you’re a night owl. I hate your cigarettes. You hate my singing voice. You think I’m too bossy and secretive, but you can be just as controlling and cagey. Half the time we’re oil and water, but between the sheets, we’re gasoline and matches. 

I jump, startled, having given myself away to the blast of cool air wafting from your fridge. I straighten and turn, a beer in one hand and a peach in the other, the fridge open at my back. My nipples have pulled tight, and with every breath I can feel the cotton of your t-shirt cling to me and rub over the sensitive peaks. My heart beats faster at the growl in your words, and at the sight of you: you’re sweating, your dark hair is soaked with it, and it’s in wild disarray from being mashed under your bike helmet. Your pack is slung over one shoulder, and your own t-shirt sticks to your chest and under your arms.

“I didn’t think you’d mind,” I smirk. Your blue eyes narrow as your eyebrow hitches up, and your tanned, toned forearms tense as the grip on your helmet tightens. “It’s so hot,” I continue, stating the obvious.

You snort with a nod, and your helmet hits the counter with a clatter as your pack slides from your broad shoulders, landing with a dull thud. Tilting your head, you take in the bottle of import beer that’s ‘a pain in the ass to find down here’, and the full, unblemished peach in my other hand. I watch you process the picture before you, and then you’re stalking across the floor, arms going up, hands over your shoulder to pluck at the back of your shirt, tugging it off and tossing it aside carelessly. Beneath it, your skin gleams in the hazy afternoon light and I swallow thickly as I take in the wicked curves of your collarbones, the smattering of hair spread over your pecs and the whorl of it at your navel. Your jeans are barely held up with your belt. Now you’re standing before me, looming over me, one hand coming to the edge of the fridge, the other to the open door, caging me in against the cold metal racks of the appliance. You lean in.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you rasp, deftly plucking the now sweating bottle from my fingers. With a quick flick you twist the cap off, tossing it into the sink, your eyes never leaving mine. Your gaze is still unwavering as you lift the bottle to your lips and take a healthy swig. I can’t help but watch your throat work as you swallow, and I’m drawn to the way the amber glass presses against your mouth.

“Peaches are native to South Asia,” I murmured, feeling you push the bottle back into my empty hand.

“Oh?” you mutter after swallowing. You reach for the hand holding the peach and lift it up, inspecting the delicate fruit clutched in my fingers. Sliding your grip down to my wrist, you hold me steady while holding the peach, your gaze hot and stubbornly holding mine, and you open your mouth and sink your teeth deep. The flesh gives, and sweet, sticky juice bursts on your tongue and drips out of your mouth as you pull away, chewing slowly. Still you stare, your tongue flashing out, flickering along your top lip, chasing the stray juice. “Bet they’re sweetest here,” you say. You lean closer and bring the peach, still in my hand, to my own mouth. “Taste it.” 

You don’t give me a choice as you push the fruit against my lips, right where you’ve already taken a bite. I comply, your eyes keeping mine steady. I swear I can taste your mouth, and I chew and swallow, humming with a nod to your observation. I take a swig of beer, and the crisp bitterness of the lager is brought out by the sugar of the fruit. I offer the bottle to you, and for a while, we do nothing more but stare at each other, sharing a beer and a peach, feeding each other, quenching one thirst while driving another to smolder, until there’s nothing left but an empty bottle and sticky fingers. The whole time the fridge has been open, and while I’m starting to feel a little chilled on my back, it’s nothing compared to the heat radiating off of you.

You’re inching closer and before you can close the distance like I know you want to, I turn in your arms, moving you so that your back is to the open fridge. You stiffen as the icy air caresses your skin and makes goose bumps rise along your shoulders and flanks.

“Feel good?” I ask, watching the way you shift and sigh.

“Hmmm,” you nod, running fingers through your sweat-dampened hair. Your hand moves to your jaw, down your neck and over your chest, skating along your stiff nipples, and a tiny gasp sails from your lips as your eyes brighten. You tongue rolls along your bottom lip. When your hand comes to rest on your belt buckle, you groan, “On your knees.” You’re already pulling the buckle open and popping the top button on your jeans. “I wanna fuck that mouth, peaches and all.”

I nod, my heart already racing with your words. Watching you tug your jeans open with restless fervor makes me lick my own lips, and suddenly I don’t care how sweaty or how grimy you may be with your day. You want my mouth and I want to give it to you, and even as I’m falling to my knees, you’re pulling the shirt from my body, sliding your palms down my breasts and pulling my nipples until I whimper sharply, just the way you like it. You let go, and watch me continue until I’m arranged at your feet, staring up at you, my fingers fluttering over your fly. With a smile, I part the zipper, and give a little smile when I find that you’re already getting hard.

“Better get to it,” you mutter with a smug grin, nodding at me. You catch my hand where it rests on your thigh and move it right over your cock, squeezing your fingers around mine. “You know what I like,” you continue.

I do know, and I love to give it to you, but you’re never this…demanding. I’m not complaining, though. Sometimes you throw me for a loop, keep me guessing, and I love it, every bit of it, having to figure out how to handle you. My free hand curls into one side of your briefs and I tug them and your jeans down, off of one hip and then the other. I haul your swelling length out and all at once you sigh and lean back, catching the door of the fridge and rocking back on the heels of the boots you’re still wearing.

I hum in approval at your shiver, the cool air hitting your warm, sensitive flesh, and I glance up to watch your head fall back, your eyes close, your mouth pursed in a tiny ‘o’ as your breathing changes depth. The feeling of you coming alive in my hand, hardening with every stroke of my palm, every brush of my fingertips over the head that peeks out of the foreskin excites me, makes me throb deep and hard between my thighs. You fill my fist quickly, velour and granite, hot, and I can feel the blood pulsing beneath your skin. I steal another glance up at your face. That smirk is back on your lips, your eyes hot and heavy on mine.

“It’s not going to suck itself, babe.”

I purse my lips in exasperation, but really, I don’t mind the tone you use. It makes my skin tingle, the way you tell me to do things, and when I’ve got the very tip of you exposed to the cool air surrounding us, I lean up, and over, and lock my gaze with yours while wrapping my tongue all around your thickness.

You chuckle at the surge of pleasure that no doubt starts at your toes and explodes between your hips. “Oh…fuck, that’s it.” You nod, tilting your head, fascinated by the sight of my mouth on your dick, and you sink your fingers into the hair at the back of my head. “Come on, get all of it.” So I do, and close my lips around the head, sucking, and then taking more and more of you in, as much as I can. “That’s it,” you murmur. What doesn’t fit, I palm. “Jesus, that’s it.” Your words are groaned thickly and vibrate straight through your body, down your dick, into my mouth and to my very core. With a deep breath through my nose, I close my eyes and set a languid, leisurely pace.

Your hips move almost immediately, and the hand in my hair tightens. “Stay still,” you hiss, your hips drawing back and then pushing forward, the head of your cock dragging over my tongue, painting it with the salt and musk of you. I hum contentedly, swallowing you every time you plunged deep, grazing the underside of your length with my teeth when you draw back. Pulling your lip up between your teeth, you order, “Hands behind your back.” My nostrils flare in anticipation and you swallow thickly, your pupils blowing wide. I can taste the bitterness of precum leaking from the slit and I roll my tongue against it, lapping as best I can while I whine in my throat.

“Fuck, you’re a little slut for my cock, aren’t you? Hhm?”

My eyes drift shut and I try to nod while you continue to fill my mouth.

“Don’t look away when I’m talking to you.” I’m branded by the heat in your voice, and you snap your hand in my hair to bring my full attention back to you.

This time, my whimper is muffled around the girth of your cock, and the most obscenely wet sounds fill the space we’re in. Your hips roll back and snap forward, and you reach the edge of my throat, practically wedging yourself in. Still gripping my hair, your other hand glides to my chin, cupping it, and then to my jaw, and my cheek, where it hollows and billows as you fuck your smooth, hard length into my throat. “Yeah, you like sucking that dick. Look at you,” you praise, drawing your fingers from my face. Your hips stall and with a slow, deliberate sway forward, you sink deep, cutting off my air and making me gag around you.

“Can’t breathe, sweetheart?” Your voice is borderline sinister. You’ve always had a bit of a mean streak, and it rears its head at the most interesting times. 

My answer is muffled. No, I can’t really breathe, not when you’re so deep I feel you in my toes, but your taste and the hot steel of your thick cock are more than compensation. I could suffocate happily here and I gaze up at you in a dreamy haze and blink slowly.

Before I really have time to register, your thumb and forefinger close gently over my nose, shutting off the air I can get. I start, blinking the lust from my gaze and give a little moan. You move your fingers from my hair and grasp my jaw, holding me steady and begin to eagerly wind your hips and jam your cock straight down my throat.

I gag and stiffen, sliding my hands to your thighs, digging my fingertips in as I struggle in your grip. Offering some reprieve, you withdraw all the way, making me choke and gasp, and your length drags a line of saliva out, making it dribble down my chin.

Beneath my fingers, your thighs flex, and your mouth turns into a hard line. “We’re not done,” you warn. But as you stare at me, your face changes, softening at the edges of your eyes. You stoop down, releasing my nose and cupping my chin. “Do you want me to stop?” The concern is heavy in your voice and your gaze. You’ve broken character just to check on me, always so aware of the other people around you. 

Your hands are gentle, almost hesitant, and I know you think you’ve crossed a line. “No,” I sigh, shaking my head.

And then, all at once, the softness flees from your touch and the concern in your eyes is replaced with deviant lust. “Hands behind your back.”

I obey, clasping my fingers at the small of my back, and you smooth my hair from my eyes before gripping it once more. The wet, firm tip of your cock presses against my lips and you growl from where you stand over me. “Open up for Daddy,” you order huskily.

You work yourself into my mouth again, humming and sighing as I suck you hard, then soft, wet, and always working my tongue. You may be above me, controlling me with your words, but you’re the one with your dick in my mouth, trusting me with your release. You catch my gaze again and once more clamp my nostrils shut between your fingers. You slide deep and wait until I choke, and then pull back all the way, letting me take a breath. You repeat: slide deep, I choke, you pull back, I breathe. It goes like this, faster, harder, a little more brutal, and I’m feeling lightheaded as your grunts get louder, air hissing between your teeth as you work.

I’m afraid to look away, to miss the show on your face, the way your eyes narrow and then widen with your mounting pleasure. Sweat beads on your forehead and rolls down the bridge of your nose, dropping from the end and splashing against my cheek where it lands. You bite your lip, lift the edge of your mouth in a determined sneer. Your shoulders are quaking, and your belly quivers with each pass of my tongue. I can feel spit and your precum leaking from the corner of my mouth, and tears well at the corner of my eyes, but I’m not about to give up. I want you to come. I heave a muffled moan against your cock and when you pull out, I see my chance, chase you forward, grappling onto your hips and pushing you back against the racks of the fridge.

The bottles shake on the shelves, and the door swings in your grip, connecting with my shoulder, but I’m too busy to care. You swear, startled, and your boots skid on the granite tile as you find your footing and snare another handful of my hair.

Your curse is sharp, hoarse, and you hum and moan as I take over, moving my hands from where I’ve held them back long enough for both of us. Your skin is on fire and it trembles as I clutch your hip in one hand and the base of your cock in the other. It’s no secret between us that I love your cock and everything about it, and I proceed to show you, wetly, firmly, with long, fluttering strokes of my tongue and deep, root pulling sucks that you feel at the base of your feet and spine. You begin to lose control, of me and yourself, and you babble as your eyes greedily take in every move I make.

“Love that mouth all over my dick,” you sigh, hissing sharply as I pause and concentrate on the swollen, slick head, the tip of my tongue digging just below, against the glans. When your eyes slip shut I moan. I know you’re not going to last much longer; the shaking of your thighs and knees is evidence enough. But you’re swelling against my tongue, growing hotter and harder with every pass of my lips, and I can’t wait for you to explode.

With a wet hiss, my mouth pops off your length, and my fist strokes furiously, working along your slick skin. “Are you gonna come, baby?” I tap the end of your cock against my lips before spitting on it and passing my fist over it again and again, jacking you against my tongue.

“Jesus,” you huff, opening your eyes. “Ah, fuck.” You smile, and so do I. “That looks so fucking dirty,” you say as your grin broadens. “So fucking good.”

Indulging you, I take as much as I can into my mouth again and roll my tongue against you. My jaw is aching. My knees protest where they’re pressed into the tiles beneath me. Once more, you take up a handful of my hair and hold me steady as your hand covers mine on your length. Another warble of delirious pleasure bubbles out of you, making you chuckle and shake your head fondly. “I’m gonna come right on that tongue. You want that? Want me to come in your mouth?”

I nod with a moaning sigh, closing my mouth to lick my lips in anticipation. My hot breath sails against you; our hands are a blur stroking your cock and you grunt and growl like the animal I know you can be, and then right at the edge of it all, you slow down a fraction, gripping hard and absolutely milking your shaft for all its worth. “Here it comes,” you whisper hotly, almost to yourself, almost in reassurance.

My mouth opens, tongue cupped to catch every last drop. Every jerk of your fist pushes the leaking head of your cock against the wet muscle and you whimper. A hot, breathy cry sails from your chest, rising in pitch and volume and then suddenly, you’re there, your voice tight as you spill quickly, thickly, into my mouth. I’m spurred by your face, the sound of your helpless cries, and I close my mouth around you, licking and swallowing every drop I can, stroking my fingers along your stilling hand. You utter a hoarse oath as my mouth tugs your pleasure up from your belly. I continue to work you over, and even as you soften in my mouth, your gaze is hungry. You’ve got plans for me, too, I can tell, and I can’t wait to find out what they are.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to incog_ninja for her never-failing flailing and Nmbr1fanilow for her love all things my pervy mind comes up with.


End file.
